The other day, my Grade 11 advisor announced that our class would be spending last period on a Friday making pet rocks. It was a declaration I expected to be met with grumbling and mockery from a set of high schoolers usually insistent on proving their coolness. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised when our class—debate nerds and ardently masculine athletes alike—responded with enthusiasm, gleefully starting to call dibs on the best rocks. For the next hour, the twenty-three of us were up to our elbows in feathers and googly eyes, and by the end, we had a neat collection of oddly-shaped yet endearing chunks of stone. Though I still haven’t fully gotten the glitter out of my clothes, I wonder if there’s something worth appreciating about a group of sixteen-year-olds who are willing to sit peacefully and decorate rocks for an afternoon. It was one of those rare intervals where we are allowed to forgo any expectations of maturity and, for a short time, repossess the unpretentious pleasures of paint, popsicle sticks, and pom-poms.